Far too many of the stories are throw-aways (the second half of "Far Out," for example, consists of a series of overly cute exercises in whimsy that are, frankly, not worth the bother), and the order Updike has given them doesn't particularly do them credit or force us to consider him as a writer of short fiction in any new and more illuminating light.

It’s the same reason I get squirmy when I see drunk twentysomethings loudly singing in the streets, convinced their exuberant whimsy is entertaining all within earshot — I flash back to a night in 1994 when I did the same thing, confident that passersby thought that a staggering Manhattanite howling “New York, New York” with his friends late on a Saturday night was a heeeeeelarious sight.